A summer’s day on Svetlogorsk prom (where there is a lift)
Published: 25 August 2022 ~ Whenever I need a lift, I go to Svetlogorsk
Look! Is that really me sitting outside a café bar in Svetlogorsk gazing out across the sea! I wouldn’t want you to get the erroneous impression that I have a peculiar Freudian obsession with lift shafts, but here I am back in Svetlogorsk again checking up on what has happened or not, as the case may be, along the prom extension of the Svetlogorsk coastline, at the base of Novyy Promenad lift. Perhaps I am just sitting there for the convenience of the location, enjoying respite and inertia and the pleasure of drinking beer. Will we ever know? And will the world stop turning if we don’t?
Approaching the lift on the uplands, we walked through the landscaped grounds of Yantar Hall, described by tour guides as a ‘modern multifunctional cultural centre’, a place where bold futuristic design meets pretty silver-birch woodland. What a juxtaposition! I cannot recall what was here two decades ago when I first came to Svetlogorsk. “Bugger all!” my brother cries. For once, he could be right. But we won’t split hairs about it, if only because as one gets older one tends to becomes more follically challenged. However, we will politely venture that a percentage of the ground requisitioned for this ambitious development consisted of hard-surfaced tennis courts and more of the woodland that surrounds it today. Should I be wrong, excuse me. (I know you often do …)
On a warm summer’s day, although the streets of Svetlogorsk are not exactly teaming with people, give or take several score more than there was twenty years ago, charting one’s course to the lift via the grounds of Yantar Hall is to court serenity. You mind knows and so does your soul that you are walking in step with nature, heading towards the sea.
It does not take long, in fact a surprisingly short duration, for new buildings to make their peace with Nature. Already, the headland entrance to the lift has begun the process of blending, or perhaps for the sake of accuracy we should say that the environment into which it intruded no longer baulks at its presence
The plate glass wall that perimeterises the outdoor viewing area and stops you from travelling down to the prom without the aid of the lift, could make you feel a little queer if heights are not your thing, but if you are feeling queer and heights don’t bother you, don’t fret, the only thing you need worry about is that there is something wrong with your gender. Viewed from a different perspective, from the crest of the bank to the ground below and out across the sea, it is the perfect place for people, who have forgotten to bring a cameraman with them, to take those all-important filtered selfies to post on social media. A picture is worth a thousand words, make no mistake about that, possibly more if you care to count them.
The view from the gallery inside the building, looking down on the construction site that hugs the coastline below, revealed within visible limits no dramatic alterations since my last reconnaissance. That luxurious premier apartment overlooking the sea has yet to box the space that it has been allocated, but I am sure that it is out there somewhere, somewhere in the future, complete and enviably occupied.
For the time being, however, I would have to be content with commenting on such changes that had occurred, and which could be seen and appreciated once we reached ground level.
Whenever I need a lift, I go to Svetlogorsk
The first appreciable development was the opening of a café bar at the front of the lift’s terminus, facing the prom and the sea. It did not take long to leave me here to enjoy a beer, or two, whilst my fully aquatic wife flirted with the Baltic.
The small forecourt at the front of the café is demarcated inside a rectangle of black metal planters, which would ‘good looks’ (as my wife used to say, until I put her right) as screening for a home patio. Craning over the top of the planters, I was able to observe that the adjoining area containing the retro fast-food vans, which had acquired two more in my absence and was beginning to look like a diner-vans’ colony, was also territorially enclosed with planters, but ones that resembled tubs on wheels. Their portability opened up all sorts of possibilities for mobile garden planning (see, my time as an editor on Successful Gardening was not entirely wasted), failing which they could be exploited as excellent roving ice buckets, eminently suitable for large-scale soirées or adventurous garden parties. They would also make good kiddie buggies into which to throw your children and tank around the lawn or, exclusively for my wife, a customised nomadic swimming pool. I could take one of these buckets on wheels, roll it under the apple tree, fill it full of water and my wife could go and sit in it. And I, of course, could take photos of her that she could then post to VK.
When my water-winged wife got out of the sea, any chance that I may have had to impress her with my notions were lost to a flurry of praise of how wonderful it was to swim and commune with ‘beautiful nature’. Now she was imploring me to take photographs of the ‘amazing’ sunset. Cuh!
Keeping my plans for the planters secret, I finished my second pint and fortified in stereo walked over to the sea wall not to take photos of sunsets but of the lift and its immediate surroundings from the perspective of the front elevation. Hmm, perhaps I do have a lift shaft fetish? But that is by the by. If I had not pursued my inclinations, I would not have been any the wiser that above the café where I had been sitting a restaurant had been installed. By no means the largest restaurant that the world has ever known, it does have long, broad windows through which you can gaze at the briny.
Eventually, I did take that picture of the sunset over the Baltic Sea and in doing so discovered an excellent example of utilitarianism that either had not been where it is now when I last leant on the wall or if it was, I had not been paying attention. Every three or four feet or more flat surfaced wooden rectangles, approximately one foot in width and two feet in length (I am an ardent supporter of the old imperial system ~ it really does make life just that little bit less simple) had been bolted along the top of the wall, creating, in effect, handy little table tops on which to stand your sundries. A man standing next to me placed his can of beer on one. What a good idea!
How well these table tops will hold up when the summer weather turns dramatically to winter is a point I wished you had not raised. Perhaps they are detachable? No matter, I am so taken with the concept of them that should they float or fly away I will return with one of my own.
Making off in the direction of the older promenade, where one would have been when Svetlogorsk was Rauschen, nothing leapt out at me like a mugger in Brixton to alert me to something that I may not have seen already. But when we reached the giant sun dial, the starting point of the old prom, sheets of corrugated tin barring further access reminded me of an article that I had read in the local news about future reconstruction work to the resort’s historic esplanade. That future was obviously now.
Not meaning to imply by the word ‘historic’ that the in-situ esplanade is the one that Germans once strolled along, most likely not even the foundations on which it stands is of German origin, nevertheless its Soviet heritage must retain nostalgic value for others not just me, but me included since I have sauntered along it many times over the past 20 years.
Following the diversionary tactics of other pedestrians, we ended up on a hard-surfaced path hidden inside the bushes, running parallel to the promenade, that I had forgotten had ever existed, and it was from this path and the bushes lining it that I was able to take a photo of the old prom (see above) looking rather sad and forlorn in its decommissioned condition. Whether the whole kaboodle is to be replaced or the framework preserved and a new plateau raised above and around the existing structure, your guess is as good as mine. But lured by my illicit love ~ my affair with Svetlogosrk lift shaft ~ I am bound to find out sooner or later. When I do, I’ll let you know.
Published: 30 July 2021 ~ Svetlogorsk Promenade Perchance to Dream
Before the Baltic seaside resort of Svetlogorsk was Svetlogorsk, I mean when it was Rauschen, the promenade, along which smart and well-dressed German ladies and gentlemen walked to be seen, to socialise and to partake of the fresh sea air, was of the slatted-wood variety and ran from where the Soviet sun dial stands today to the corner of the access road that twists and curves from the town above.
To the right of the sundial lay a stretch of beach, three-quarters of which was covered in rocks and boulders interspersed with brief ribbons of sand. I walked along there once looking conspicuous in my brown Oxford brogues, like a failed graduate from English spy school.
This new and inevitably controversial development all but obliterated what little bit of sand there was, although in the last 12 months or more the sand has reappeared, shipped judiciously in from somewhere to quell the rising tide of discontent at nature’s loss for profit’s gain.
The promenade itself is both a luxury and convenience. It is nicely finished in variegated styles and colours of block-paving, as well as granite slabs and traditional wooden slats, providing plenty of space for perambulation both on foot and on wheels.
The street furniture combines traditional with modern exotic: crescent-shaped backless and wrought-iron benches in more than sufficient numbers take care of the bum department and matching black waste bins, black pendant lampstands and bollards, also in black, borrow for their style and class from classic designs of the late 19th century and the earliest years of the 20th.
The extensive hording behind which the pile-driving and foundation laying is busily underway for the ambitious sea-view development is brightly printed with artist’s impressions of what the strip will look like when the heavy plant machinery goes, the noise has all died down, the dust has settled and the buildings are up.
Svetlogorsk promenade extension under construction, July 2021
The scenes foretold are predominantly night-time ones. They present an attractive window-lit oasis of seductive commercial modernity. In this light, with the surf-rolling sea out front and the steep, foliated, tree-topped banks out back, Svetlogorsk has never looked so sensual. It’s Frankie Vaughan’s moonlight and Chris de Burgh’s lady in red all wrapped up in a silky-smooth smooch under the stars, on top of your dreams.
A computer-generated image of Svetlogorsk promenade
Down the road a bit in daylight, stands the already up and running replacement pedestrian lift. It’s a cut above the old one (more of that later), which could well have been an advert for corrugated tin had not sections of it in the fullness of time simply upped and blown away.
The new lift on Svetlogorsk promenade, 2021
The new lift is no such beast. It is a solid-looking affair, with its own concourse and a clean, no-nonsense interior. At the side of it, rather less spectacular but none the less fun, stand a couple of 1950s’ retro American diner caravans dispensing food of the fast variety, together with teas, coffees and ices.
A ‘diner’ fast-food wagon next to the lift on Svetlogorsk’s promenade extension, July 2021
It was whilst I was sitting opposite these on one of the chairs and at one of the tables provided drinking my tea that I had the feeling that I had seen this lift before, or something quite like it, in the opening credits of Stingray. Touched by Gerry Anderson, I half expected to hear that dislocated voice booming across the decades, “Anything can happen in the next half hour!”
It did. I finished my tea.
On the slatted wood just in front of the thick metal railings which allow you to see the sea, there are a series of very nice, heavy wooden recliners, which my wife had me photograph as she reclined away for Facebook. You also get traditional seats of the park-bench type, thoughtfully encased in a metal-framed and polycarbonate curvature, so perchance it should rain you can stay where you are, keeping an eye on the sea just in case it might do something different.
Sea view from Svetlogorsk’s new promenade
We walked to the prom twice in one weekend to experience the thought-provoking contrast between the sea that never changes and the Svetlogorsk coastline that does and is.
On the first occasion we left the prom the hard way, climbing the steep and finally zig-zagging metal steps to emerge all hot and sweaty and gasping for breath, but still pretending that we could do it again all day, at the top of the road where the Hotel Rus once stood, and indeed, still does, albeit now in a closed and in a somewhat lonely capacity. If I had not been so close to keeling over after climbing the stairway to heaven, I could almost have shed a tear. The Hotel Rus closed! Who would Adam and Eve it! Another piece of my personal history gone!
Having learnt our lesson the hard way, on the second occasion of leaving the prom, we paid our 50 roubles and took the lift.
I’ll tell you about that later.
Svetlogorsk promenade hotel construction with recently completed lift, July 2021
Mick & Olga Hart celebrate their 19th wedding anniversary in Svetlogorsk, Russia.
Published: 5 September 2020 ~ Englishman Married Twice in Russia in One Day
31 August 2020 was our wedding anniversary. Nineteen years together and never a cross word. At least, I used to think so until I learnt more Russian and discovered that what for years I had presumed to be my wife’s words of endearment were in fact expletives. How does it go? Ignorance is bliss.
To mark the occasion of my good fortune and her bad, I suggested that we take a trip to Svetlogorsk, the Baltic coast seaside resort, and retrace our steps in time. There, we would visit the church where we were married and call in at the hotel nearby, Starry Doktor (Old Doctor), where betwixt the two ceremonies, the first at the church and the second at the Russian equivalent of the UK’s registry office, we had, with our guests, stopped off for a pizza and something light to drink.
Olga, my wife, had wanted a church wedding but in Russia church weddings are not officially recognised by the State, which meant that we would need to be married twice on the same day: first in the church in Svetlogorsk and then at the registry office in Kaliningrad.
Before I could be married in the Russian Orthodox Church, it was necessary for me to attend an orthodox church to seek absolution for my sins.
As I was in England prior to the wedding, and living at that time in Bedford, I had to travel to the Orthodox church in Kensington, London, in order to honour the obligation that the Orthodox church required. On hearing about the purpose of my trip, some of my friends opined that I would be there for a very long time.
Today, 31 August 2020, the plan was to call in at Starry Doktor first, for an old-times’ sake pizza, and from there walk to the church.
As well as being our wedding anniversary, another anniversary of almost equal proportions was about to be enacted, which was that this would be the first time that I would eat something and drink beer in a restaurant, discounting one bottle outside a beachside café a few weeks back, since the coronavirus air-raid siren sounded, which for us was sometime in March this year.
The masked traveller
We travelled by train, as we were in the mood to do so, equipped with regulation coronavirus face masks and antiseptic hand wipes, both of which became progressively useless as normal life took over.
It is difficult, if not perfectly ridiculous, wiping hands, wiping the top of bottles, wiping, for example, a sweet wrapper and in the process of doing so forgetting what order you are doing it in or whether you have done it at all. The best anyone can achieve in normal circumstances is to go through the motions and then give up.
Englishman married twice in russia in one day
Arriving in Svetlogorsk we found that the number of visitors, which after a very heavily subscribed summer season due to the Russian state’s incentive to boost domestic tourism in the wake of coronavirus restrictions, was at last diminishing. Autumn was on its way; holidays were over; school term was about to resume.
Nineteen years ago to the day, the weather had been superb. Mr Blue Sky had garbed himself in his best robes for the occasion and his friend, Mr Sun, although as bright as the proverbial new penny, had turned down the heat with respect to the presence of autumn.
Summer, like the madness of youth, was fading fast and as it ebbed away was being replaced by that distinctive autumnal tinge. In autumn the air becomes thinner and our senses more finely attuned, especially our sense of smell. Summer is the time of noise, laughter, exuberance; autumn the soft and mellow fragrance of yellow and auburn leaves, of mossy dampness and that enticing nip in the air that tells of winter’s imminence. It is the seasonal ante-chamber, the last stop for quiet reflection, before the cold embrace.
When we left for the coast by train this morning, it had just stopped raining, but upon our arrival in Svetlogorsk (I can hear Victor correcting me ‘Rauschen’) the sun had broken through and someone up there was being kind to us on our anniversary as the temperature was perfect. We are autumnal people.
We walked the short distance to Starry Doktor, and I was both pleased and discomfited to see that my favourite property, the old Mozart café, had at last been bought and was now being renovated. Whatever you do, please do not spoil this wonderful example of Gothic Rauschen, I heard myself whisper.
We passed the smallest antique shop in the world, thankfully not open today or we would have bound to have been in there buying something, and found ourselves opposite the newly constructed and open Hartman Hotel, a resplendent establishment if ever there was one, which, with its imposing vintage automobile swishly parked outside, is bound to give Svetlogorsk’s Grand Hotel and Hotel Rus a challenging run for their money.
Information board outside Starry Doktor Hotel, Svetlogorsk, Russia
Starry Doktor, we were pleased to find, had not changed. And neither can it, as the information board outside the building denotes. There was no change inside either, not to the layout and décor or in the reception that we received, which was rather Soviet in kind.
“We’d like to order a pizza. Can we eat outside?”
“No”
“But we can order a pizza?”
“Yes.”
Olga looks through the menu.
“What sort of vegetarian pizzas do you have?”
“You will have to look.”
“OK. Can we have cheese and tomato?”
“We don’t do that. We do cheese with tomato paste.”
“OK. We will have that.”
“Which one do you want?”
“Cheese and tomato paste?”
“You need to look in the menu and tell me which one that is.”
Back to the menu.
“Margherita.”
Smiling and being ‘mine welcoming hostess’ was not apparently on the menu either and as we were the only patrons, we found ourselves acting in that strange way that one does in cafés and restaurants when the atmosphere is not quite to one’s liking, ie talking in low whispers. Nevertheless, this was all part of the traditional service and being us, odd, the nostalgic input was strangely appreciated.
When the pizza arrived it was not thin crust; it was very thin crust. If I did not already have a pocket handkerchief, I could have folded up a piece and used it as such. However, it was not without taste, and putting behind me almost all notions of misapprehension regarding coronavirus and drinking from a bar-room glass, my first beer for yonks on a licensed premises was greatly appreciated.
Starry Doktor Hotel, Svetlogorsk, Russia; August 2020
From Starry Doktor we walked the short distance to the small church where we had been married. On the way we were dismayed to find that one of our favourite houses had been swallowed up by a new, totally out of scale, brash ‘look how much wealth we’ve got’ refit. I could not be sure, but since our last visit in the spring of this year, it looked as though another gargantuan villa, again completely off the scale chart, had sprung up between the pine trees on the opposite side of the road.
“Will they ever stop building?” Olga grumbled.
Just for us, or so we would like to think, the weather was getting better by the hour. Our little red-brick church, resting on top of an eminence, with its three or four tiers of steps leading up to the entrance, peeped through the birch and pine trees; the sunlight peeped through them too, impressing the surface of the church with dainty twig and leaf patterns, whilst the sky above smiled bright and blue and the air about us blessed our senses with that first cool note of autumn.
Svetlogorsk Church, Russia, August 2020
If you were watching my words as moving images on a screen, we would now defer to the cinematographic technique where everything goes wavy, the implication being that we were going back in time. So let us do just that, and ripple away to the day of our wedding in August 2001.
Englishman married twice in russia in one day
On this day, 19 years ago, we were residing, with our wedding guests from England, at the Lazurny BeregHotel ~ alas, another victim of Svetlogorsk’s build ‘em big and build ‘em high development. Lazurny Bereg, which was a mid-sized building and a nice hotel with bags of character, has since been replaced by something high-rise. I am not sure whether the new-build is an apartment block or a block of flats for holiday lease ~ c’est la vie.
The church service was set for 11am, so it was breakfast at 9am, and togged up and ready to go by 10am, but first we had to run the gauntlet of a series of Russian games, pre-wedding reception frolics, which, to be quite frank, as I was as nervous as ~ you know the word ~ I could just as well have dispensed with.
My wife to be was being waited on by friends, who were helping with her make-up and dressing her in her wedding apparel ~ well, that’s what she told me they were doing? Meanwhile, at an appointed time, I was instructed to go to the front entrance of the hotel with my brother David and our friends from England, then, when the word was given, I was to enter the building and proceed upstairs to the first-floor hallway where our hotel room was situated.
The word was given and in we went. As soon as we reached the first flight of steps we were met by a delegation of my wife-to-be’s, Olga’s, friends. Two of these could speak English, otherwise the scenario would have been considerably more complex. As it was, we worked out fairly quickly the nature of the first game. Apparently, I was not allowed to see my fiancée unless I crossed the palms of those before us with rubles, ie I had to pay a levy!
After a great deal of banter about would you take a cheque or how about an IOU, I offered two and six, but the Russians were having none of it. We had to pay and pay in rubles.
Never mind whether my wife was worth 200 rubles, about £1.30 at that time, unfortunately I was ruble-less in Russia. As luck would have it, my brother David’s wallet was better endowed than mine, and he handed over the requisite notes. He reminded me about a year ago, however, that I never did pay him back and that technically my wife was his, a subject on which I will say no more …
Having stumped up the cash, we were then escorted to the first-floor hall. Neatly laid out on a table in front of us were a series of family photographs featuring children. I was asked to guess which one was Olga. I think I was on the verge of getting it wrong when one of our friends blurted out the answer, who then shouted “David’s paid the money and I got the photo right, your claim [on my wife] is looking more dodgy by the minute!” This is what happens when you let Londoners come to your wedding!
Now it was time for Olga to emerge from the room in all her finery, but instead, the hotel door opened and there stood a large man dressed in women’s clothing. He gave me a Goliath hug, informing me as he did that if I did not pay a ‘ransom’ I would have to marry him instead. He would not have dared to suggest such a thing today, given England’s queer reputation! But back in 2001 things were not so very far gone.
If only she’d have shaved!
Once again it was down to my brother to make good with the rubles, who by this time was protesting that my lack of rubles was clearly a fix.
At last Olga appeared. She had decided to forsake the Russian trend for large, voluminous and pleated wedding dresses for something less ostentatious, and she looked lovely. Mind you, Andrew, the man in drag, was not a bad second.
It was only a short journey from the hotel to the church, but a mini-bus had been hired to get us there. As the church service was to be presided over by an Orthodox priest, who naturally would be speaking Russian, I had been given cues and, acting on these cues, instructed as to what my responses should be. So nothing could possibly go wrong, could it?
I love Orthodox churches. The richly painted and opulent icons together with the mist from and smell of wax candles intermingled with incense creates the most hallowed of atmospheres, and our church, although modest by big city standards, had an ethos all of its own.
Englishman married twice in Russia in one day
The ceremony required us to walk in circles at given points in the service and to have two people standing behind each of us holding gold-tone crowns above our heads. One of Olga’s friends did the honours for her, whilst my brother held the crown above me. He complained later that his arms had ached considerably and that the task had not been made easier by the tight fit of his jacket. If I said it once in those days, I had said it a hundred times: avoid cheap suits from Hepworths.
My brother, David, crowning me
All things considered, the service went well. Yes, it was a pity that when the priest asked me if I had another wife as an impediment to getting married that I answered yes instead of no, but I think I got away with it!
The wedding ceremony (blurry pictures courtesy of pre-digital photography, although the originals are sharper than this)
Outside, after a good round of photographs, this was the point at which we walked across the road to Starry Doktor, where we congregated outside for a drink and a pizza. I stayed on non-alcoholic beverages as we had a heavy itinerary in front of us.
Pizza time was essentially a way of killing time. In Russia, as I mentioned earlier, church marriages are not officially recognised by the State, and in order to be officially married, to have the marriage registered, we had to travel into Kaliningrad and get married a second time at the official registry office.
Forty minutes later, a cavalcade of cars whisked us off to the city, about 25 miles away. It was quite impressive, even allowing for the gallows humour about fleets of black cars and funerals.
The registry office functioned from inside one of Kaliningrad’s big old concrete monoliths, which has since been given a face job, but back in those days it was a daunting sight, all weather-stained and pock marked.
From a small portico the entrance led into a hall of typical marble effect. We had first to cross this hall into one of the small offices at the far end and get ourselves ‘booked in’. However, my passport, which at that time I should have been carrying with me day and night, was back in Svetlogorsk in the hotel. This omission caused something of a bureaucratic crisis in spite of the fact that the young lady in the office had seen and spoken to me half a dozen times the previous week, when we had visited the offices to ask questions about procedure. Just as it was beginning to look as though we would all have to come back next month, the issue was finally resolved upon the discovery that I was carrying a photocopy of my passport, which was accepted under the circumstances, but only after I had received a jolly good telling off ~ pity I could not understand what the young lady was saying.
All sorted, we were then ushered into an adjoining room, an antechamber to where the main event would take place. This was the ‘red room’. Why? Because it was; the walls were maroon and the furniture reproduction Louis something, the rather loud nature of which caused one of my compatriots to draw parallels between it and a bordello. He should know, I thought.
All looking amazed about something in Kaliningrad registry office’s ‘red room’ (31 August 2001)
We ambled around in this room for about ten minutes before being called into the official wedding chamber. This was a vast room indeed, highly ornate but empty except for a table and chair at one end, above which hung a large example of the Russian coat of arms. At the centre of the desk stood a small Russian flag and behind it a large ledger, which was waiting for me and the witnesses to sign.
Mick & Olga Hart’s wedding in Kaliningrad registry office, Russia, 31 August 2001
When it came to the crucial moment, the placing of the ring upon Olga’s finger, the music that was playing in the background was intercepted by the Beatles singing, of all things, ‘Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away …’ This, obviously, set the British guests rocking in the aisles, whilst Olga’s two female friends cried bitterly, not inspired by the romance of the moment but by the inconsolable belief that they were losing a friend forever, who, once married, would be whistled off to degenerate England never to be seen or heard of again.
From the ring and Paul McCartney, it was off to the front desk. I took up my position on the seat in front of the ledger and to the solemn refrain of the Russian national anthem, which thundered around the room, duly signed my name in the book. Olga then followed and the witnesses came forwarded and scribbled their monicas in the space allocated for this purpose.
Signing the official wedding book … Mick & Olga Hart’s wedding, Kaliningrad, Russia 2001
The music changed to something full of glad tidings and amid the congratulations that we were well and truly spliced, and the kisses and kind words (Clive, my London friend, “Well, you’ve done it now!”) large bunches of flowers appeared and at last a tray of alcoholic beverages.
Outside, under the portico, the tradition of throwing the bride’s bouquet mirrored that in England and was caught by one of our English friends.
Now, all the official gubbings done and the church service completed, you would have thought that we would be off to the reception ~ not so. First, we had to honour the tradition of being driven around the city, a trip culminating in a visit to Kaliningrad’s principle Soviet war monument, where, in front of the eternal flame and at the steps of the commemorative obelisk, we would pay our respects with flowers.
The photographs that were taken here are among some of the most potent and memorable of that day and also reveal how lucky we had been with the weather.
Mick & Olga Hart’s wedding. At the Soviet war monument, Kaliningrad, Russia, 2001
Before joining our other guests at the reception venue, we had one last call to make. This was for wedding photographs to be taken outside of Königsberg Cathedral and in the pillared vestibule containing the grave of Immanuel Kant, the German philosopher.
You can be sure that by the time we arrived at the reception hall, I was ready for a drink! But there were yet two more Russian wedding traditions that had to be observed before we could indulge.
The first was biting the loaf. Both my wife and I were assigned to this task, one after the other, the idea being that he or she who took the biggest bite would be awarded the role of dominant marriage partner. Olga went first and, always up for a challenge, I followed making sure that I took a massive bite. Whilst everyone was congratulating me on having taken the biggest bite, as with most things marital I had bitten off more than I could chew. Fortunately, the next act involved gulping back a glass of wine, which saved me from choking on the bread, and then we chucked our glasses over our shoulders and into the street behind us. One glass broke and the other glass bounced, but I never did ask what the symbolic significance of this was.
Our reception was held at what was then known as The Cabana Club, a restaurant/café bar with a Latin American theme. It was a good choice, an attractive venue equipped with three large rooms. One room served as the wedding reception area, the other as a dance hall and the one at the back a very large and quiet lounge, with comfy seats and soft music.
Mick & Olga Hart’s wedding reception at The Cabana Club, Kaliningrad, Russia, 2001
Alas, The Cabana is no more. It appears as if the building has been parcelled off. If I am not mistaken, a portion of the premises is now occupied by a small bar frequented by students and young folk, but as the interior of this latter bar is rather small, the rest of the old Cabana Club must have been subdivided for other purposes.
The reception
In essence, Russian wedding reception rooms are not so very different in configuration from their English counterparts. A table is placed at the head of the room for the bride, groom and other officiating ceremony members and the guests occupy either a chain of tables leading from the principal along both sides of the room or, as in our case, owing to the shape of the room, are dotted about here and there in groups. I believe there had been the usual head scratching about who should be sat with whom, and some license extended to unusual combinations, but at the end of the day concord was achieved.
One departure from British formality is that whereas in the UK it is customary for the best man and groom to speechify, in Russia everyone has a go. The food is served, and each guest in turn interrupts the eating process by standing up and delivering a speech as a precursor to toasting the newly wedded couple. Another significant difference is that whereas British tradition swerves heavily towards the jocular, speeches typically embroidered with satirical tales of lurid happenings from the stag night before and often inter-sprinkled with a ribald confetti of innuendos and smut, Russian speeches are characteristically deep and philosophical, well-meaning and sincere. They are also very long and made longer in our case as those guests who were bi-lingual acted as translators for their Russian companions so that we, the British contingent, could understand the sentiments expressed.
Among our guests was Sam Simkin, esteemed poet of the Kaliningrad region, and, of course, our dear friend Victor Ryabinin, artist-historian. I can see him now, peeping out from behind a picture that he had painted especially for us, delivering his speech with customary sincerity and humility. His presence was, as always, a source of warmth and reassurance. Sam Simkin presented us with a landmark book which both he and Victor Ryabinin had composed, The Poetry of Eastern Prussia.
Many guest speeches later, the dreaded moment arrived when I had to perform my speech. The content of this speech had been a bone of contention for months. I had to produce something which Olga could translate effectively to the Russian contingent, but the idiomatic nature of my speech and its typical recourse to innuendo made it difficult in this respect, and there had also been some controversy between Olga and myself about the tone of the piece.
The props that I would be using had also fallen under the critical spotlight: there was a doctored image of President Putin and the then Mayor of Kaliningrad with caption saying something about British invaders, a photocopy of one of our British wedding guests wearing a German helmet and, the pièce de résistance, a pair of hole-ridden and ragged Y-fronts. Whilst I had no doubt that the turn and tenor of my speech would have gone down well at a wedding party in Rushden, England, I was not entirely convinced, given the criticism aforehand, that it would be as well received, or for that matter understood, in Kaliningrad 2001.
Go for it! So I did. But all the way through I felt that I was on very shaky ground! In the event, I pulled it off ~ and I am not just talking about the underpants ~ better than I could have hoped for, but I was glad when it was over.
It really was time now to sit back and just get drunk, but Russian wedding parties are not like that. Before we could even think about relaxing in the traditional sense, we had a whole afternoon of games to contend with.
I will not go into detail about all of these, but restrict my comments to two. One had me wrapped in a blindfold. In front of me sat a row of ladies on stools with their legs crossed. My job was to walk down the line and fondle each of their knees and by this process, whilst blindfolded, identify my wife. I was not complaining and, yes, I did get it right!
The knee-feeling game: Mick & Olga Hart’s wedding, Kaliningrad, Russia 2001
The second game was one we had played when we first came to Kaliningrad in 2000, at a New Year’s Day party. This game is one which we later exported to England and used to good effect at some of our own parties.
It goes like this. Three or more male players have a long piece of string attached to their trouser belts. Attached to the end of each string is a banana. Lined up in front of the players are three empty matchboxes. On the word ‘Go!’, all of the men have to thrust their hips in order to swing their bananas. As their bananas make contact with the matchboxes, the boxes begin to move. Each player has to move his matchbox in this way, the winner being the first to propel his matchbox over the finishing line by the powerful thrust of his hips and the decisive way he handles his banana.
David Hart prepares his for the ‘banana game’: Mick & Olga Hart’s wedding, Kaliningrad, Russia, 2001
To this day, the controversy persist over who won the contest and who cheated. In the final analysis, I think we agreed to compromise. The summation was that whilst the Russians may have had the biggest bananas, the British contingent had the best hip movements.
Cue wavy lines across the final image.
That was 19 years ago. This was not the first time we had returned to the little church on top of the hill in Svetlogosrk, but it was possibly the first time we had made the definitive connection between our wedding and the life we have had together since. The first time we had returned on the day of our anniversary.
We stood before the lectern where we had stood 19 years ago. We had a cuddle and kiss and Olga took the mandatory photographs for her Facebook account. And then we lit two candles and placed them in the sand-filled stand in front of one of the icons.
“Let us say thanks to God for each other, for the times we have had and hopefully have to come,” says Olga.
We also said thanks for all the experiences we had shared and for the people we had met along the way, including thanks for Victor ~ especially for Victor.
Outside, the sky was blue, the sun was radiant. It was a glorious day in Svetlogorsk (‘Rauschen, Mike’), as perfect as the day on which we had been married.
Mick & Olga Hart outside the church where they were married in 2001. Photo taken 31 August 2020. Svetlogorsk (Rauschen) Russia, the Kaliningrad region.
I recently visited the Hotel Russ (August 2019). It is interesting to observe what has changed in the past 20 years and what has not. The following description is taken from my notes of the Hotel Russ as it was on that celebrated day in 2000 when we first arrived in Russia, almost 20 years ago. Later, we hope to write a review of what it is like to stay in the Russ today. Meanwhile, this was our first experience …
Having passed through the main gate of the Hotel Russ in Svetlogorsk, we followed the path along the side of the building to the entrance. Two large glass doors opened up into a wide, airy and spacious foyer. You could not miss the reception area as it was elevated and had the word ‘Reception’ emblazoned across it, surprisingly in English.
Reception area, Hotel Russ, Svetlogorsk, Russia, December 2000
To get there necessitated climbing up two or three steps
onto a wider platform and then approaching the bar. I do not mean the sort you
get in pubs; this experience was rather more similar to approaching the bar in
court (as far as I am aware).
The two young ladies behind the counter were, well,
beautiful springs to mind, but it was a cold, unsmiling kind of beauty; the
next word that sprung to mind was ‘’officious and, after that, ‘very’. Olga did
the talking; we did the looking and the walking.
From our elevated position we could see that on one side of
us there was, indeed, a bar. We both felt instantly better ~ who said ‘at
home’?
Bar area, Hotel Russ, Svetlogorsk, Russia, December 2000
The bar area contained the usual outcrops of tables and chairs, which extended down one side to the end of the building. The chairs were chromium backed and the round tables marbled topped. Indeed, marble ~ or simulated marble ~appeared to be the material of the day within the Hotel Russ. To the left of us, in front of the bar, stood a row of tall, square-section pillars, which fanned out in vaulted form before folding into the ceiling. One of the pillars was decorated with artificial shrubs and climbing plants and beneath it we could hear a water feature bubbling
The area beyond the pillars was effectively the hotel lounge. It was well appointed, with a bank of windows which extended along the entire side of the room and soared up into the heavens above. The ceiling was very high, and if you stood in this lavish area, with its reproduction antique furniture and comfy, cushioned divans, and looked up at the ceiling it was evident they had designed the Russ to look like an ocean liner, complete with curving staircase that took you up majestically onto the upper deck.
Lounge area, Hotel Russ, Svetlogorsk, Russia, December 2000
As grand as they were, we did not take the steps. Our
luggage was extremely heavy and bulky, even discounting the Sausage, so we took
the lift instead.
A tall, thin man, with a face he had purchased from Serious
& Co, was summoned to help us with our luggage. He came across the room in
a most peculiar way, but it was not until he turned back again towards the lift
with a couple of bags, including the Sausage, which were far too heavy for him
to manage, that my brother, with an alacrity of mind that was so atypical that
he must have borrowed it for the occasion, identified the gait as ‘mincing’.
From that moment on, our tall assistant would be known to us as Mincer and
Mincer he became.
From left to right: Joss Hart, a man from the Hotel Russ and Mick Hart , December 2000
For a big hotel the lift was little. It was also not very
wide. Certainly not wide enough for Olga, Joss, myself, two hefty cases, the
Sausage and Mr Mincer. We got in and were all squashed up, something like Dad’s
Army when they all crowd into the vicar’s office. There was nothing for it,
something would have to give. So Olga got out and walked upstairs. There goes
another myth, ‘the typical English gentlemen’.
It was a small lift and it was also a very slow lift. It did
not start moving straightaway. Titter ye not, I thought, but it was hard not to
all cramped up like that with Mincer looking so serious. But we knew better
than to laugh in Russia ~ thank heavens for the stiff upper lip.
Ping, went the lift, at last. I felt as if we had travelled
to the top of the Empire State Building not just to the first floor. Joss and I
squeezed out and Mincer followed, or he would have done had not the mischievous
Sausage found another small door to straddle. We helped our hapless baggage boy
out and relieved him of the obnoxious case.
We were now standing in a wide area overlooking the bar, three
or four tables and chairs around the perimeter and a pool table in the centre.
The rooms on this floor were arranged around an oblong balcony with the
centrepiece open and from which you could look down onto the floor below.
The first room that we entered was the one reserved for my
brother, Joss. It was not bad at all. A little formal, perhaps, by British
standards, I mean not at all like Mrs Musson’s Guest House at number six No-Beach
Brightlingsea, but lacking nothing in the clean, neat, tidy and comfortable
department.
In addition to the usual appurtenances, Joss had a large,
three-quarter size bed and a rubber plant.
Next it was our room, which was on the other side of the
balcony facing the Rus garden. In we went, all excited, only to discover that
our double room was smaller than Joss’ single and that whilst he had a double
bed ~ of sorts ~ we had two singles?
My brother has always been a true gentleman, mostly by
accident, and today was one of those, because he surprised us all, including
himself (and that doesn’t happen very often) by making the supreme sacrifice:
he was willing to give his room up for ours ~ to swap rooms.
Isn’t it obvious!?
Feeling altogether sensible Olga went downstairs to
reception to request the transfer. She was back almost quicker than she went
with the intelligence that we could not change rooms as Joss had a single room
and we had a double, so any change was impossible. The exact response from the
ladies at reception had been, “Isn’t it obvious: the single room is for the
single person and the double for two people”.
To say that we were not perplexed would be an understatement
and Olga, perceiving that her two English associates had been skittled, left
them sitting on the bed in Joss’ room, to which we had retreated, sipping vodka
thoughtfully out of a hip flask, whilst she went off ‘to see what could be
done’.
Ten minutes later she returned. “It’s OK, they are taking
care of it,” she assured us.
And they were, sure enough, but not in the way they might
have done it back home. As we walked past the open door to our bedroom, we
caught sight of the solution to the problem, in the shape of two burly Russian
gentleman moving the single beds together and securing the legs at either end
with two thick pieces of rope. This made us chuckle; Olga was not amused. She
was also not very amused as in passing the upper extremities of the Christmas
tree, which extended from the ground floor up through the oval aperture almost
to the roof, Joss noted that there was no adorning fairy or star on the top.
His suggestion to hang an old pair of underpants on it was a step too far in
the smutty English humour direction for Olga, and she went from feeling annoyed
to visibly irritated.
To take the wind out of her sails (my brother was also suffering from wind, and she was not too amused about that, either), I suggested a tour around the hotel to get ourselves familiarised with it. At such a time when many companies were still in the embryonic stage of website development, surprisingly enough the Russ was ahead of itself, and we had been able to appraise the quality of this 4-Star hotel by consulting its site ahead of our trip.
As we descended, this time by the grand staircase, we met
Mincer on the ground floor, and Olga asked him if we could see the sports
centre. “It’s broken,” he replied.
Joss and I shot a glance at each other: perhaps something
was lost in translation?
Broken or not our guide continued. We followed him down a
short flight of stairs into what appeared to be a typical sports centre
changing room, wide and open with slatted bench seats around the wall. We then
turned right into a passageway. Against the wall stood an exercise bike, its
front wheel hanging off. Mincer said something. Olga translated: “Broken,” she
said.
There was little point in arguing. But what about the swimming pool, surely the wheel could not have fallen off that.
It had not. But it had shrunk. On the photographs it
appeared to be a full-size pool, whereas, in real life, it was a large, deep bathtub
into which one plunged after vacating the sauna. Was the sauna working? Er …
Fully refreshed after our workout, we returned to our
respective rooms. Olga had made arrangements to meet with her friend, Helen,
the plan being that we would venture into Svetlogorsk for a drink, but what was
needed now was a cup of tea and a refreshing bath.
Don’t drink the water
Spoilt by literally having drinking water on tap in England,
Olga had alerted us to the fact that in the Kaliningrad region it was strictly
a case of ‘don’t drink the water’. I wondered whether it could be as bad as we
had been led to believe. The answer came when I began to fill the bathtub. To
say that the water was black may well be an overstatement, but it was certainly
getting that way. We called Joss in from his room to witness this hitherto
unseen spectacle, and then we had Olga ring to reception to report the anomaly.
Her reply was, “Isn’t it obvious? You must let the water run!” So, we did
exactly that, until we feared that we had dissipated half of Svetlogorsk’s
water reserves. Oh, well, we would have to forgo the bath. But what about
something to eat? Something simple, such as a cheese and tomato sandwich prior
to going out on the town? Our request, by phone to reception, was met with some
confusion. The person who took the call had to consult with somebody else.
Eventually we were informed that we could have two slices of bread, some cheese
and tomatoes on the side of the plate, but they could not do a sandwich. Well,
I thought, isn’t it obvious!
It was around this time that we received a phone call to
reception from another of Olga’s friends. Olga telephoned the friend in return
and was invited to go out somewhere for a drink. As we had a prior engagement,
we declined, but Joss solved the double commitment by electing to meet up with
the second party whilst we went ahead with our original plans.
Joss’ company arrived first. They were a couple, both
persons of which were, I thought, most refined in dress and in manner. What
would they make of my brother, I mused, as they whisked him away for the evening?
Olga’s friend, Helen, arrived a few minutes later:
attractive, very sweet natured but, I thought, rather, and unduly, concerned
about my first impressions of Svetlogorsk. I had no idea as to why this apprehension
should constitute the status quo in these parts, although I realised later that
in the year 2000, apart from Germans returning to the region to see where their
family once lived, foreigners were quite a rare species and English men
perfectly alien.
Out into the cold ~ very cold ~ and snow-laden night we
ventured, retracing the route that our taxi had taken. We had difficulty walking,
the snow was that thick and, where it was not, it was that icy. Also, as I had
observed earlier, there were little or no streetlights of which to speak.
Sundial sculpture on Svetlogorsk promenade during the winter, December 2000
Our pedestrianisation seemed to go on forever, until we took a right turn in the direction of the sea. We eventually reached the top of a steep bank of steps. I could hear the sea in the near distance and feel the sea air ~ it was as sharp as the proverbial razor blade! Carefully, very carefully, we picked our way down the gallery of steps until we reached the promenade. Directly in front of us stood a man-made and man height (sorry about the lack of PCism) sundial, the wedge-shaped blade reflecting what light there was as it cut its way upwards from the ground. I took hold of this blade, and, in listening to the rolling sound of the tide, thought to myself, “I’m actually here!” (Do not forget, dear reader, that having read or heard nothing positive about Russia since I was a child and, more recent to the time of my trip, having been the recipient of negative media coverage from, without exception, every UK media source available and, in particular official channels (no change there, then!) make no mistake that being in Russia was a truly awesome thought!)
It used to be
The icy blast across the Baltics rendered any further deliberation
untenable, and we cut a hasty retreat. It had been somewhat easier descending
than ascending, and we stopped at the top of the steps to catch our breath. To
our left there were a couple of derelict buildings, about which Helen
volunteered some information as to what they used to be. By the time we had
reached our destination, a café-bar close to Svetlogorsk centre, ‘this used to
be’ had developed into a catchphrase. We passed several collapsing or deserted
structures all of which had been ‘Used to Bees’.
A welcome sight was a little neon sign marking the spot
where a café-bar stood. As we drew closer, I could make out a single-storey
building with a glass door. There was nothing else around the building. Today,
as with most of Svetlogorsk, this area has been developed, but the little café
into which I first took refuge on 27 December 2000 is, I am pleased to say,
still there and still functioning and nothing much, if anything, has changed!
Inside, the café was a simple rectangular room, tables
ranged down either side and in the far corner to the right a small semi-circular
or curved bar. The establishment was neither grand nor overtly plain. The
lighting was just right ~ not too bright, not too dim ~ and the walls were
conservatively decorated with framed pictures of the Svetlogorsk coastline and
town. Most importantly, on a night like this, it was cosy, comfortable and warm
~ and, of course, it was also licensed.
I cannot remember what lager I drank that evening. I did not
really bother. As a seasoned real-ale drinker, I had made my mind up in advance
that anything lagerish would be poor, but I drank it all the same.
My one abiding memory of this establishment, and one that
would stay with me for a long time, was that there was only one toilet, and it
was unisex. This perplexed me a little. There were only three other people
apart from us in the bar, but, when the establishment was full, how did a
one-toilet system work? The other thing that surprised me about this odd
Russian toilet arrangement was that you were unable to use the facility unless
you asked for a key from the bar. I would learn later that this inconvenient
convenience was by no means a one-off and in some places today the tradition has
not moved on much!
I also learnt this evening that whenever I spoke English in
a café or a restuarant I would be looked at ~ and I do not mean in the sense of
a casual glance! As I noted earlier, foreigners were a rare thing in ‘these
‘ere parts’ and when you were looked at you were really looked at. I believe
that throughout the 45 minutes we were in this bar, the other inhabitants, bar
staff included, never took their eyes off me, not for a single moment.
We moved on, not because of this, but to pastures anew. If
anything, our brief sojourn and the comfort afforded by it, had rendered the
great outdoors even more hostile, or perhaps the temperature was dropping even
further.
Café Mozart , Svetlogorsk
Luckily, we had only walked a short distance before another
neon sign glowed its way into our vision: in a purple-red flowing script, it identified
the building on which it was erected as the Café Mozart.
I will never forget that first encounter with the Mozart.
The building was well lit on this extremely murky but atmospheric evening, a
large picture window flooding the ground with light outside, whilst other lit
windows and external lamps threw patches of light onto this and that aspect of
the building and wove shadows above and around, picking out and hiding at will
the nooks, crannies, decor and detail of what was unequivocally a fine example
of the Gothic Revival style. As we approached, the wooden slatted and clad
exterior put me in mind of early 20th century American Romanticist
architecture, but it was far too chilly a night to bring this contemplation to a
proper conclusion.
Inside the building, large and spacious as it was, there was
a traditional dance floor to the right, complete with revolving glitter ball,
and to the left a good-sized lounge with a welcoming fire. Although this was
not a real log fire but a gas-fired replica, it made the interior very cosy
indeed. Comfortable bench seats lined the window, with armchairs and sofas
scattered here and there inviting you to sink into them, an over-mantle mirror
hung above the fireplace, which may or may not have been authentic antique, and
various framed pictures adorned the wallpapered walls, the mood lighting from a
combination of pendant and wall-mounted lamps making this habitat the perfect
choice for reasonable refreshment and good conversation.
As for the latter, most of that revolved around what it was
like to live in England and the English way of life. I would soon learn that
the Russian vision of Merry England was as quaintly outdated as our authorised
version of what it was like to live in Russia today.
Sad to say, the Mozart, which had affected me with such appealing and positive vibes, closed shortly after this visit ~ at least it was closed when I returned a year later, never to re-open in the same style. Six months ago, the building was up for sale. It has been on the market for a long while and may still be for sale today.
